David Mills and Rod Dreher…

What is absolutely consistent in this form of literature and in the critical applause it always garners from the Usual Suspects is the sick-making combination of gutless cowardice with immense self-regard for “courage”.

What is absolutely consistent in this form of literature and in the critical applause it always garners from the Usual Suspects is the sick-making combination of gutless cowardice with immense self-regard for “courage”.

As Chesterton put it in “The Thing”:

“Any man living in complete luxury and security who chooses to write a play or a novel which causes a flutter and exchange of compliments in Chelsea and Chiswick and a faint thrill in Streatham and Surbiton, is described as ‘daring,’ though nobody on earth knows what danger it is that he dares. I speak, of course, of terrestrial dangers; or the only sort of dangers he believes in. To be extravagantly flattered by everybody he considers enlightened, and rather feebly rebuked by everybody he considers dated and dead, does not seem so appalling a peril that a man should be stared at as a heroic warrior and militant martyr because he has had the strength to endure it.”

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